The Abaddon
by Emrys1
Summary: A story following the events of "No Rest for the Wicked." MAJOR spoilers for NRFTW. And bad, bad language. New installment is in Sam's POV and has spoilers for "Croatoan."
1. Coming Back

**A/N June 1, 2008: Since I decided to continue this story (in fact, turn it into a series), I thought that reorganizing the first two stories into two chapters of a WIP was a better format for fanfiction dot net. Sorry if this reorganization is confusing! Emrys**

**SPOILERS HERE!: Specifically for "No Rest for the Wicked", but all of seasons two and three are fair game.**

**A/N: I hated the whole deal thing. Hated, hated, hated it. I've been tense all this past season. And then, when the season ended, I got inspired and wrote a fic. Unbelievable. Lots of bad language in here—just to warn you. And again, major SPOILERS!**

**Enjoy the burn!**

**:)**

**Emrys**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program ****Supernatural****. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I'm not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.**

**Coming Back**

Sam's crying. Crying, bright tears that glisten in the glow of moonlight. It's a shame he saw the dogs take his brother that way; it's just too much for him.

He shivers and moans as he takes his brother's bloody body into his arms. The tears mix with the red rivers that drain from Dean. It's as if his blood is trying to follow him into Hell.

Sam shivers and moans and shakes with the energy that fought off Lilith and which now coalesces into an invisible fire. Invisible, but warm and soothing, nonetheless.

And powerful.

The power grows, but Sam barely notices. He knows why Dean sold his soul, because he'd be doing it now if the right situation presented itself.

Lucky for him, those individuals capable of presenting the right situation are too busy slavering over Dean's soul to bother with Sam right now.

Anyway, the power grows and grows until it pushes out of Sam and into Dean. Sam cries out, because he finally notices that something weird and unusual is happening.

The lifeless body in his arms rolls and rocks with the strength of the power being forced into it. Sam can't bear to see the abomination of Dean departed, so he closes his eyes and bends his head low into the soft leather of his recently deceased and Hell-bound brother.

The leather still smells of Dean, and Sam just can't stand it because it smells of iron-rich blood as well.

The power grows, and Dean's body rocks, and then there is a silence and blankness that Sam doesn't try to understand. It's like what happened, very recently, when Lilith tried to attack him. But this time he blacks out completely and for several minutes.

When he wakes up, he's disoriented. Confused. So when he sees Dean looking at him—quietly staring—when he sees that soul looking at him from out of eyes no longer lifeless, it doesn't hit him at first that he's just performed a miracle.

It takes another few beats of his rapidly beating heart for a particular impulse to cross the critical synapse in his brain. When it does, it feels as if he's been struck by lightening. It feels surreal, and fantastical and oh, so joyous all at the same time.

"D—Dean?" he whispers. He barely breathes, waiting for the impossible to become that way again.

It's not until Dean chokes out the precious name, not until Sam hears the word that has made his life real for as many years as he's been alive, that he begins to believe what he sees.

"Sammy?"

The word is choked and painful, but blessed and best. Sam screams and laughs and cries all at the same time. He practically scampers to lift Dean's still-broken body into the embrace of his arms.

He doesn't question the miracle.

Such optimism.

Such foolishness.

But he doesn't question, because he thinks he's just saved his brother from a fate worse than death, saved him from eternal hellfire and all that shit. It's written over his entire face.

Sam loves Dean, so Sam saves Dean.

Simplicity.

Stupidity.

Because he didn't just save his brother from the torture of brimstone. Not by a long shot. Dean's soul has been crumpled and burned, torn open and sewn together with its pieces out of place, gouged and scraped, bitten and plucked.

I know, because I saw it all happen. Down there in Hell, I swung by, on occasion, to watch interested parties take, well, interest.

oOo

Time in Hell is variable. Pockets of that nightmare realm move slowly, and others move fast. Time is a tool used to expedite pain or to slow down the procedure of its occurrence. It allows the single-minded devils to relish drawn out, exquisite agony of an unmentionable nature, while it simultaneously lets other more creative demons take their enjoyment from a wide variety of tortures applied in an efficient way.

It's Hell, after all. Time is irrelevant when eternity stretches in all directions.

Dean's time in Hell, though only moments in Sam's reality, expanded across two decades. Maybe even three decades. Like I said, time is hard to figure down there in the afterlife of evil. But it most definitely was a long time, and he wasn't saved no matter how much Sam wants to believe otherwise.

When Lilith took me out of my pretty body, she did send me away, just like she told Sam. Far away. But then Sam got her, and it didn't take me long to escape after that sweet exorcism. She was still around, but weak, scared, and easy to avoid. And that's just what I did, even though I was weaker than she was.

So I managed to visit Dean, when he was still stuffed with hooks, stretched by chains, and screaming Sam's name. I snuck up behind him and hollered, "Boo!"

He jumped, and his soul bled a little more. His soul, so new and shiny and oh, so terribly pretty. But it bled, then, like so much meat at a slaughterhouse.

"You'll forget him," I warned. "They'll flay him from your soul here in the dark."

"Ruby," he said, all panic and rolling eyes.

"It's funny how everyone in that other place thinks Hell is full of fire," I mused, ignoring him for the moment. "I never understood it, considering just how dark this place actually is."

I studied him, and he stared at me, disbelieving and sick. I decided to humor him, well, as much as you can in that bad place.

"Yep, it's me," I said, acknowledging my demon self to him.

"Fuck off," he whispered, hanging his head.

Half angry, half amused, I laughed sharply.

"You don't fool me, baby, not here where all souls are purified straight down to their soft, gooey centers. You don't fool me for a second. You're happy to see a familiar face."

He was fresh meat trying to be tough there in Hell. He still remembered enough of his humanity to insult me.

"Dream on," he spat.

"Whatever. You just hang out here for a while," I said, the sound of pretty pouting and fluttering eyes in my voice. "Here's where they start stripping your memory away. Sam's not even gonna be a candle smoke of thought by the time they're done with you."

He tried to look fierce and failed. He knew I was right.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, devastated. He was so tasty looking, and the demons were going to have fun with him, no doubt about it.

I leaned in and smacked my lips close to his bloody ear.

"You need to remember him. No matter what, remember Sam," I whispered, barely a breath as I tried to hide my words in a place where everyone and every thought is stripped to become open and naked.

"What?" he asked, shocked. He tried to move his head so he could look at me, but I stayed close and wouldn't let him see.

"Let them take everything else. They're going to get it anyway. Let them think they've even taken Sam. Believe it yourself if you can. But don't forget him. Not really, not where it counts. Push his spark deep and down where it will take time for them to touch it. Do what I say."

"Will it save me?" he asked, a small flicker of pathetic hope escaping him. "Will it keep me from turning into a demon?"

I backed away to consider him and his stupidity. I blinked and shook my head in disgust.

"You'll become a demon, there's no stopping that," I said, shattering his fragile foolishness into ash. "But if you're strong enough, you could turn like me," I added.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. The true and yawning demon in me wanted to laugh, but I didn't set it free. Instead, I pulled his head back by tearing at his hair, and I forced him to look at me.

"Sam," I said. "Keep his memory close. Keep that. They'll be nothing else."

oOo

Sam's fire cauterized the wounds plaguing Dean's body. The bleeding stopped instantly, but Dean's still weak, practically unconscious. He can't speak, not really. All he seems capable of is muttering one word, over and over.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."

Sam's obviously disconcerted. Even I can see it, weak as I also am. I'm forced to watch from a dark corner of the room. Forced to stick to the shadows, because I'm too frail to participate in events.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Sam soothes. He lifts Dean in his arms as if his brother is a small child. Dean's not small, and Sam, so recently bereaved, stumbles under the very real weight of his brother. He smiles, actually _smiles_, when he realizes that the burden of flesh means Dean's back and alright and a-okay.

The fucking idiot. If I was given more time, if I was stronger, I'd punch him in the face for being so ridiculous.

I'd punch him hard.

Sam carries Dean outside. He ignores the corpses in the house, ignores the traumatized living. He's born enough responsibility for these strangers, and it's time to take care of his own. He leaves the house, and through a cracked windowpane I glimpse him gently carrying Dean away, up the street somewhere past my seeing.

I can't follow them any further. Not now. I'll find them later after I've rested up.

I have plans.

oOo

When I found him later, he wasn't totally gone, not yet. But he was in the pit.

Here's a newsflash: I don't like the pit. Too many bad memories simmer there.

Most demons relish a chance to thrash at a soul in the pit. Every soul there is defenseless, feeble, drooling on itself in pain and self-pity. That's the best kind of soul for a demon.

Demons eat that shit up. Lick at the sweaty edges of the pit's torn souls. Lick and grunt and feed their need.

Dean was being fed upon when I snuck to the pit's edge. Four demons nibbled at his hands and the skin on the back of his thighs. They were enjoying themselves.

He was just screaming.

A lot.

I waited until the demons got bored and then made my way down to him. Part of me wanted a taste, because he was still a bit shiny and pretty. But I restrained myself and drew near.

"Ruby," he said. It was a simple statement with no emotion behind it. He had lost his faith long ago and no longer saw me as hope's vessel.

"Yep, me again. Having fun, killer?" I asked coyly.

He ignored the question but struggled in doing so. His soul was scraped raw, and its dredges were exposed. He was so prettily, prettily wrecked.

"Where'd you go? After Lilith took you, I mean?" he asked between painful gasps.

"What a silly question," I said, almost surprised. "Why would you want to know something like that?"

"Curious, I guess. There's not that much to do but think while they're having their fun. I was just wondering what happened to you."

"Awww, ain't you sweet. You actually care." I ventured to be sarcastic.

"Don't get all worked up, darlin'. I still hate your guts, but I could use the distraction."

I laughed.

"Honey, when some bitch high up in the food chain is gunning for you, you don't get sent to anyplace pleasant here in the underworld," I said, feeling my eyes harden.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, face blank and pale.

"A little," I said, shrugging.

"Good," he replied, biting.

He smiled at me to blunt the sharpness of his words. That smile was a miracle. A smile. In Hell. Wonders will never cease, I suppose, and wasn't this Winchester turning into something interesting?

"How'd you get here?" he asked, grunting the words out. He was obviously in pain from some torn piece I couldn't see.

"I know my way around," I said, not willing to hand out any of my secrets.

"Why're you here?" he asked as the sweat began to pour from his body. From the increase in his discomfort, I knew the others were coming.

"I've come to ask you a question," I said, businesslike and purposeful.

"Fire away."

He was trying hard not to scream, and his eyes were beginning to roll in their sockets again.

"What's the name of your brother?"

"What?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

He was irritating me. I wanted to make sure he remembered, so I grabbed his fire-lashed shoulders and shook him.

"Your brother. Dean, what is the name of your brother?" I asked, shaking him hard enough to force out the scream he was still trying to keep in.

"SAM!" he yelled, and then said, more quietly, "My brother's name is Sam."

He sobbed, and I watched him for a little while. I saw that he wasn't as strong as he was pretending to be, that parts of him were missing even though he remembered me and remembered Sam.

I left when a greasy creature with many heads began to scrabble its way down the pit to have its own sort of fun. I recognized it and its crab-like claws from my own first years in Hell.

It's hard to forget something that can cause quite so much pain.

oOo

Bobby Singer, the redneck, comes to the small, abandoned house where the Winchesters stay. I'm still lurking in the dark corners, peeking and trying to see what comes next. Bobby's competent but irritating. I try to stay out of his way, because he knows too much. I don't think he'd appreciate my presence.

He brings blood with him. Type specific, whatever that is. Blood is blood, to me. It doesn't matter what type it is, all of it is red and shiny and smelling of metal. Yummy and sweet to my demon tongue. I could use some now. If only I could swallow a little of it down, my strength would be appeased. At least somewhat.

But Dean needs blood, a lot of it. His body is dry from the lack. His lips are cracked from dehydration, his skin is bleached white. There are dark circles, like bruises under his eyes. Bandages cover his torso, his legs, and his arms. He looks like a mummy.

The bandages hide the scars. Dean's wounds, terrible as they were, are practically healed. That's Sam's doing. Sam's power did all that healing, and it's still working, even now.

I knew what could happen when I whispered Sam's name in Dean's tormented ears down in the crushing weight of Hell. I knew what Sam's power might do. But even I didn't expect this much so fast.

Two days, and the hounds' work has been undone.

Beautiful.

Dean even managed to escape his demonic fate, and quite frankly, it's truly unbelievable how lucky some assholes are.

Dean's tense and his eyes wander about. He's conscious but not quite cogent. He refuses to look at the damage to his body. Whenever Sam is close, he relaxes, yet if Sam attempts to remove the bandages Dean panics.

The devastation of his body only reminds him of the worse devastation of his soul. He can't look at himself and stay sane.

Knowing what I know, of what's been done to him, I'm not sure how he's managing it—staying sane—even now. Despite being forced to crawl around in the shadows, I'm still a demon. Hell isn't pleasant, but I've learned how to maneuver through its dark corridors. Dean was just turning truly evil down there in the shady realm when he was saved by Sam. Now he's turned human again, and I don't know how he's keeping his mind at home in his pretty, pink brain.

Sam's special. And I know why. That's my secret for right now. I won't share.

But the more I see of Dean, the more valid I find my suspicions.

Dean's special. I don't know why. That's his secret for right now.

Maybe one day he'll share.

oOo

When I came back the next time, Dean wasn't talking anymore. With a wave of my hand, I forced away the creatures that were crawling over him and chomping on his remaining juicy spots. The monsters were smaller than the demons, but warped with cold fish heads and fat rat bodies. They were big enough to get in my way. With them gone, I was able to lean in closer.

"Dean?" I asked, not totally concerned but curious anyway. Dean interested me then, and he still does now. But he only makes reaching my goals easier; they're still attainable without him.

"Dean?" I asked again. He stared blankly, not recognizing me, not recognizing his own name. "Hey, anyone in there?" I asked in a sing-song voice.

I tapped him cruelly on his forehead. There was no response, not even an eye twitch.

"Didn't think it would happen to you, did you, you stupid fuck?" I asked him.

I was inexplicably angry with him but couldn't be too harsh. Sooner or later, this sort of thing happened to everyone here. It had happened to me, long ago. I even remember most of it. It's not a pleasant feeling when your soul is slowly, inexorably twisted and chucked inside out so that all the vital, tasty bits are vulnerable to attack.

His edges were stripped clean, and he was down to the bareness of bony humanity. It wasn't going to take much longer to blacken his soul completely and turn it into a sooty demon cloud.

I leaned in until I was brushing against the hellfire still caressing him.

"Sam," I whispered, and my curiosity peaked.

He came back then, for a little while. I could see him there around his own eyes. But it wasn't long before he went away again.

"That's right, baby," I said, slapping his soul and adding to the burn. "You remember Sammy."

oOo

Lilith surely did take a lot from me, so I'm still crawling in the shadows many months after Dean's returned to his brother's tender clutches. This is why night is the best time for me to spy on my pet project. There are plenty of shadows to curl and twist in, to peer and pry from.

Dean's lying on a broken cot, covered by a moth-holed, army blanket. His pillow is so flat, it's basically useless. But his bed is better than Sam's, because little brother had to be happy with the floor. Down there on broken boards, Sam's large frame is bunched up inside a sleeping bag.

It's quiet, so quiet I can almost hear the moon drifting its way across the nighttime sky. Its pale light shines in through a small window and casts the boys' faces in silver and shadow.

The quiet breaks when Dean begins to moan in his sleep.

Soon, he's writhing on the cot, pulling at his hair, groaning and drooling. It's not long before he starts screaming. He sits straight up in bed, and his eyes are open but he's not seeing anything other than whatever images his nightmare forces on him.

He screams and screams and screams and isn't about to stop anytime soon.

Sam is awake and beside his brother before Dean's spittle can even fall to the floor. He crushes Dean against him, but Dean still keeps on screaming.

Bobby runs into the room with pure panic on his disheveled face. He shares a desperate look with Sam, who shakes his head and continues using physical contact to try drawing Dean out of his stupor.

Bobby comes closer. Sam's way isn't working, so the older hunter reaches over and grabs Dean's ear. He twists it, and Dean flails against Sam's chest. The screaming stops. Dean's eyes open, and he's awake. Sort of.

I can see by the look on Sam's face that he wants to voice an objection to Bobby's harsh treatment. But he doesn't get a chance, because Dean suddenly flops to the side of the cot and heaves bile and more spit to the floor. A perverse part of me laughs at his weakness, and Singer's attention is suddenly fixed on my dark corner.

I control myself and sink further into the shadows, beyond the reach of the old man's senses.

In the meantime, Dean's upchuck ends. Sam draws his hand through his brother's damp hair.

"C'mon, man. Let's get you up."

Sam and Bobby maneuver Dean's body so that he's lying on his back again (Dean's shivering is going to be the end of that dilapidated cot, I can tell). Dean starts repeatedly moaning Sam's name again, and the sound reminds me of my first conversation with him in Hell. He was screaming then, but it was still Sam's name.

"Calm down, Dean. It's okay," says Sam.

Dean snaps out of it completely then and realizes where he is and who he's with.

"God, sorry," he whispers. He sits up. One hand clutches at Sam's shoulder, but the other supports his own body.

"No problem," Sam and Bobby say, almost simultaneously.

"I'll be all right in a minute," Dean says. His breathing is harsh, but it's slowing down.

"Not a problem," says Bobby.

"Take your time," says Sam.

Dean follows Sam's advice, but it only takes a few minutes before he's lying down again, fast asleep. Bobby leaves, and Sam watches over his brother.

It's then when I realize I have faith in these two Winchesters. I have to laugh at the sick joke that is me. The fact is that even though demons take pride in their lies, we always recognize the truth. And the truth really is that I have faith in these two sorry fucks. Me, a faithless demon, discovering faith in the most fallible of creatures. That's just fucking hysterical.

I study Sam who is studying Dean, and I know for sure Dean will come back from this. Despite the circumstances, Dean's soul has been touched by a speck of angel's power. And when a soul—no matter its torment—is touched by that sort of thing, it's soothed and healed and strengthened.

Dean's been smashed by the hottest flames of all, but he'll be tempered under Sam's numinous influences. When all is said and done Dean will be a weapon, and the first of his kind.

He's not ready yet, but he will be soon. And then, maybe then my plans will bear fruit.

My plans. Are you curious about them? Well, it's too bad for you, then isn't it? Because there's no law, natural or supernatural, that compels me to tell the likes of you.

Besides, the trite say patience is a virtue. Just this once, take their advice. Try to be virtuous. If you're very unlucky, you'll see, eventually, what my scheming brings.


	2. Ajar

**June 1, 2008 A/N: Since I decided to make "Coming Back" into a multichaptered WIP, I figured a little reorganization was due. Instead of several little one-shots here and there, I'm putting everything into one big WIP. Sorry if this has lead to any confusion! Emrys**

**SERIOUSLY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE:**** By adding this fic to my SPN repetoire, I'm putting my fingers in real sticky places. First, it's a second story to what I guess is going to be a series of stories (the first in said series is "Coming Back"). I'm committed to another HUGE writing project, so it's a little inconvenient to be playing rough and tumble in the SPN fandom right now. But it doesn't seem I have a choice, because my brain is obsessed and is working of its own accord. I'm totally out of control.**

**Second, I'm going to be playing with biblical text. Here is where my fingers come out covered in jam, and snot, and all kinds of sticky goo. To be sure, the book of the New Testament I'm playing with is probably the most interpretative of all the biblical books (in some versions of the Bible, it's not even included). However, I seriously am playing around with what most consider a sacred text. And I'm doing it to meet the needs of a few demon characters in a piece of fanfiction…it's bad stuff, truly. So if you're not into authors messing with the Bible, please, don't read this story.**

**And please, don't flame me. I'm feeling enough heat already (seriously, my palms are sweating just thinking about posting this fic).**

**Regular ole Author's Note****: Don't expect the third story in this series (which I'm going to title "The Abaddon Series") to come out as quickly as this one did. I'm on vacation, so this came fast. But here's something to think about. I'm a public school teacher. June is on its way!**

**HUGE spoilers for "No Rest for the Wicked" and you probably need to read the first story in the series before this one makes sense. Also, lots of cursing in this one. I can't help it if it's narrated by a demon! Oh, well, I guess I can.**

**Also, since this is from Ruby's point of view again, and since she's not really into squeaking out all of her secrets, this may be confusing at the very end. But it's supposed to be that way. In time, I'll have her tell you everything.**

**:)**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own anything related to the television program ****Supernatural****. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I'm not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.**

Ajar

The brothers Winchester play house and try to have a real life. They live in an apartment, together, in a quiet place named after angels. Sam goes to school. Dean tries to stay sane. Bobby visits on occasion.

I visit also. That's why I know what happens next.

Wanna hear about it?

oOo

Dean still hallucinates. It's easy to tell because there are times when fear is in his eyes, and he sweats for no good reason. The images come at bad times. Sometimes Sam's head warps and jiggles unnaturally as he talks; sometimes it's laughter from nowhere or monsters under the bed.

Dean wonders if he will ever be rid of the delusions, if he'll be so close to Hell for the rest of his life.

He hates the phrase "rest of his life." Hates it because he can't think about what will happen when his life is over.

He just can't.

Anyway, Dean still hallucinates. So when he sees the swirling in the darkness of corners, he tries hard to ignore it. Does a good job, too. Until today, he hasn't even spared more than a second glance at the smoky curls in the dark corners.

Silly boy, it's just me. Weak and harmless Ruby.

But today, Sam left for school, and Bobby's nowhere in sight. Dean wakes up from a nightmare he can't remember. He's sweaty and doesn't feel very well.

He's alone and can't remember why.

So on this day, I help him out a little.

The shades are closed; Sam left them that way so the very bright sun only peeks into the room. Dean's been sick at heart lately—it's not hard to imagine why. Sam hopes rest will help his brother, so he's sensitive enough to keep the light at bay for as long as Dean's tired body allows. Dean sleeps late in the dim room, but not too late. The nightmares forbid it.

I don't mind the lack of light, because the dim helps me out. The darkness lends me strength, and my shadow swirls.

Dean stumbles out of bed. His sweaty face turns my way, so I see it when a flash of memory stabs him. It hurts. Bad.

He sinks to his knees. One hand holds his head where the pain is worst. The other presses into the badly varnished wood floor and supports his upper body. The pain ratchets up a notch, and the hand on the floor slips. Wood splinters invade the tender skin under his fingernails; they draw blood. The hand slips again and slides into the gloom of my corner.

The slideshow of hellish memory continues, so he doesn't notice when I nip and slurp at the blood on his fingers. I draw more of the juicy red stuff and drink it up. My strength increases. It's just what I need.

I watch him carefully, and I know when his memories are receding. He returns to himself slowly. I draw back, but his hand is still in my corner, bleeding into my swirling shadows. Tough iron and scarlet life still lend me strength and breadth.

Hurriedly, he removes his hand, not far, but I sigh at the sudden loss. He squints at me carefully, and I see it when his eyes widen in recognition. If I had lips, I'd smile.

"Ruby?" he asks. His voice is as rough as the splinters still sticking in his hand.

"About time you saw me," I say in my demon, buzzing voice. I know the sound reaches him, because he clutches his head and more blood flows from his nose. I'm smug and a little bit pleased.

"Why're you here?" he asks, wiping at his nose, smearing the blood over his upper lip.

"Idle curiosity, killer. Nothing more."

I'm half-way in his head now, so I see it when another set of memory blinds him. An image of Hell's pit swims behind his eyes; the memory of the last time I called him 'killer.' I laugh. He sees nothing clearly for a little while.

When he comes back, I laugh for a little while longer.

"So how're you doing, Dean? Enjoying life away from Hell?"

I giggle, and he can barely stand it.

"Why are you here?" he asks through painful gasps of breath.

His repetitiveness is annoying.

"I'm not telling!" I sing out in my buzzing voice.

He wants to send me away, I know. He vaguely remembers an exorcism that could do the job even though I'm not corporeal.

He just doesn't remember the words.

He sinks to the floor. He shakes and bleeds and clutches his head. I watch and talk nonsense and laugh at him. He hasn't come far from Hell, but his edges are clean and linen white. He's growing in ways he doesn't know, and one day he'll be so bright I'll see the sky through him.

Sam's power touched him, continues to touch him, and Dean's becoming what I need.

Outside, the sudden noise of a car door slamming makes Dean jump. It's Sam. The intruder.

I slurp again at the blood on Dean's fingertips, lick at the stain on his upper lip. He flinches away from me but doesn't have the energy to push me completely out of reach.

"Tell Sam I said hello," I say and retreat to the far back of my corner. Far back, where I can't be seen.

At least from Dean's perspective, I'm gone and he's on the floor sweating and bleeding.

And then little brother is there, grabbing at Dean's shoulders and saying quiet soothing things that make me mad.

"Dean, what happened?"

Dean can barely speak, and for a moment I think I got away with my visit. But he chokes out an answer after a little while.

"Sam, uh, I dunno, I, uh, I think, I just saw, uh, Ruby."

I want to laugh at his stuttering weakness. I want to laugh at Sam's devastated face. Dean doesn't hide anything from Sam anymore. Sam, sometimes, in selfish moments, wishes this wasn't the case.

I giggle. That's when Singer comes in, and I know I'm screwed.

"She's still here," Bobby fucking Singer says.

Dean scrambles away from my corner. That's how Sam knows where I am.

Sam's eyes narrow, and somehow I'm drawn forward again. I have no control. I'm not happy about that.

"Ruby, what are you doing here?" he asks. There's no surprise in his voice, just simmering anger. I am compelled to answer.

"You could almost say I'm here for sentimental reasons," I buzz. Compelled to answer for sure. But these new rules of Sam Winchester's can't force me to tell the truth. No demon can be compelled to go against inherent demon behavior. That would just be fucking ridiculous.

"I'm not going to let him be played with by demons. Not anymore."

"Why, Sam, I'm hurt," I say, all pout and drone. "I watched after him for you way down in that other place. I would expect a bit more hospitality."

"He's not a pawn anymore. He's out of play. Leave us alone," Sam says.

And doesn't he look so delicious in his uneasiness? He doesn't know what he's capable of, and for that reason this is all bluff and bluster. He took on Lilith and won by accident. I know he's strong, and I know how he's strong. I could have him if I wanted, because I know what his true purpose is.

But I need to play this smart. Can't have my own pride spoiling my big plans, can I?

I decide to annoy him. It's fun.

"Oh, believe me, Sam, all sorts of demons have already had their fun with him," I say, taunting.

His anger abruptly gets away from his control.

"Go away," he says. "I don't want to see you again."

He flicks his hand, and I feel the power flare. I'm forced back, but not totally away. I drank Dean's blood, and that means I don't have to leave if I don't want.

But I'll stay quiet and hide, just to see what happens next.

Sam stares at his hand. It's obvious he still doesn't understand his recently awakened power. It's still so chaotic and whimsical, working sometimes, but not always. I'm sure he's wondering why it worked now, or if it even did.

Poor, poor confused baby.

I resist the urge to snicker, because Bobby Singer of the keen hearing is still in the room.

"She's gone," Sam says.

Behind him, Singer curses. Beautifully.

"That was stupid, Sam. We need to know more."

"I know," Sam says. He's angry. Angry at Bobby, at himself, at everyone. But his voice is still quiet. "Don't you think I know?"

Sam looks at Dean, still and in pain, lying heavily in Bobby's arms.

"C'mon, let's get him on the bed," little brother says.

As they lift Dean, Sam begins to cry. Unabashedly.

His sorrow is boon and blessing.

oOo

I come back to my corner of the Winchester abode, but Dean's not there. I search from black spot to black spot, but my plaything is gone. Yet, interestingly, in the kitchen, when I peer from the corner of a musty cabinet, I see a demon sitting in the middle of the room.

I can tell it's Nybbas, the fucking stooge, because the body he inhabit grins maniacally and wears those stupid glasses he loves so much. Smoky glass and wire rims. What a clown.

He sits alone and quiet. He's fat like the stinking pig he emulates. I stretch my smoke to talk to him, but the kitchen door opens and Sam walks in. I am again relegated to a fucking corner.

As soon as Sam comes in the room, Nybbas' smile grows larger, becomes deformed. He bows his head in a conciliatory way.

"Mr. Winchester, I've heard so much about you," the demon says, all dark eyes and smarmy tone.

"Nothing good, I hope," Sam quips.

"Oh, never, I can assure you." Nybbas' tongue is silver slick and smooth.

Does he know yet just how much trouble he's in? Does he understand there's no talking his way out of the mess he's just buried himself in by getting caught? Worse, by getting caught by Samuel Winchester?

I don't think so.

"Good to hear," Sam says. "Now tell me, why all this sudden interest in my brother?"

"Why, I have no idea what you mean," Nybbas says. He's lying. Nybbas' interest is strong. He got a good, hearty taste of Dean Winchester when he was down in Hell. Nybbas hasn't quite gotten over the flavor of him.

Sam's power flares, and Nybbas cries out.

"We can do this easy or hard," Sam says. He glances at the ceiling. I see the devil's trap and shrink back.

"Oh, I assure you, I prefer the easy way," Nybbas says, gasping and crouching in new found fear. The dim fuck might just now understand what he's up against.

"That's good to know. Now tell me why I've found three demons skulking around my brother."

Three? I have to wonder who the third little shit is. As I wrack my brain—such as it is—no answer comes. I forget to listen into the conversation playing out before me, until Sam's power flares again. Nybbas is quickly becoming a sniveling wreck. It's odd. I would have expected more from a demon who basks in the dark fires of Hell.

Then again, Sam's power is angelic in source. Even I fear it, especially after the little taste he gave me yesterday. Hence I hide in the dark corners.

Nybbas snivels and starts to cry. When his glasses slip down his nose, he hurriedly pushes them back up.

"There's a story, an important story. It's been misrepresented," Nybbas says.

I curse. It's not really a surprise that he's going to tell. It's just that I thought he'd hold out for a little while longer.

Demons. Just can't trust them to, well, do anything at all.

"What story?" Sam asks, all quiet anger and clenched teeth.

"I can't tell you that," Nybbas says. "Please, I've told you more than I should already."

"You've told me nothing," Sam says, and lashes out with his power again.

I'll give Nybbas credit, he tries hard to withstand Sam's wrath. But even from my cupboard corner, I can feel the heat of Sam's rage. It's exquisite and sharp, like nothing I've ever felt in Hell. Nybbas doesn't have a chance.

Sam steps back to view his work. There's human meat glazing the demon's core, and Sam knows it. For a moment, as Nybbas wiggles and howls in fear and pain, Sam looks uncertain. He stumbles out of the kitchen, and the demon shakes and quivers beneath the invisible chains of the devil's trap. Sam's gone only for a moment, before he comes back again. It seems as if he's made a dangerous decision.

"I want answers," Sam says. "I'll have them."

Nybbas shrieks in dismay and, yes, fear. I cringe back. Angelic power can bring retribution in the most serious of ways.

It isn't long before Nybbas, his skin burning in many places, starts shouting out secrets.

The dumb fuck.

"It wasn't an angel who spoke to John of Patmos! IT WASN'T AN ANGEL!" He screams. I can tell his mind is warping.

And that's when Dean Winchester walks through the door.

"What the fuck is going on here?" the older Winchester yells.

I have to admit, it must be a strange sight to walk in on your brother terrorizing a fat, bespeckled demon. Especially when you aren't expecting it.

"Dean—" Sam says, but he's interrupted by Nybbas' now gibbering shrieks.

"Ostium, ostium, ostium," Nybbas says, and I curse. "Ianua, ostium, ianua."

"What the hell?" Dean yells over the loud noise Nybbas is making.

Sam ignores Dean for a moment, because he can't take his eyes off Nybbas who can't seem to take _his_ eyes off Dean.

"Ostium, ostium, ostium…." Nybbas screams insanely.

It's a lamentation, his repetitive song. A lamentation, because Nybbas is telling sacred secrets. And not just the little sacred secrets. The big ones.

The whoppers.

Knowing this is bad, I mean _seriously_, fucking, BAD, I gear myself up. I drank Dean Winchester's blood very recently, so I have a little strength left. I didn't want to use it all in one blow; I wanted to save it up to cause mischief of my own when it suited my needs. But now all my plans are on the edge of ruin, and I have a little strength to maybe keep things from unraveling.

Just a little strength. Maybe enough.

As everyone is distracted by everyone else, I sneak my way forward. I blow a little dust, spin a little wind.

Just enough wind to settle the dust on the greasy ceiling of an antique kitchen. The little specks blow and twirl, and stick to the devil's trap. They're small, feeble specks of dirt, but they're enough. They break the spell of the trap.

In a prattling hurry and force, Nybbas is released. He exhales himself out of his human gift box, and digs deep into the cracks of the farm boarded floor. He's gone.

He doesn't even say thank-you, the fucking twat.

I shrink back and leave before I feel Sammy's wrath.

Look what a sniveling mess Nybbas became with only a few moments of Sam's attention.

I wouldn't want that to happen to me, would I?

I mean, a lady has her pride.

oOo

Sam reads aloud.

"'I, Jesus, have sent My angel to testify to you these things for the churches. I am the root and the offspring of David, the bright morning star.'"

He looks at Dean who is sleeping quietly on the nearby couch. Sam's forehead scrunches up with worry. He bites at a nail.

I know he's remembering something important. He's remembering Lilith, and the grand, luminous light she gave off when she tried to smite him only months ago.

We demons can look mighty fine and wondrous when it suits our purpose. That's what Sam's thinking. He's seen plenty of demons, but he's never seen an angel. Right now, he's wondering if it would be easy to confuse the two.

I'll tell you a secret. It is. It really is.

I'll tell you another secret.

John the Exiled was a fool. He had no scope. And his self-esteem was trashed by the end of his journey. Trashed, because events quieted down; God withdrew, and Jesus went with him. It's the way of things. It's how things are.

But John, he wanted Revelation, with a capital "R". He wanted to know his struggle was worth the fight.

He was fair game and ripe pickings for a very clever demon.

A door is a door is a door.

All doors, except one, are meant to be opened. All clever demons know this.

All doors, except one.

John was lied to by a son of the morning star, and when the time comes, the door which isn't supposed to be open, will be.

The time is soon. I look at Dean Winchester peacefully sleeping, and I know the time is soon.

And when that time comes, I want to be the Abaddon. I'll walk the hell of earth and spend my time with sinners. I'll swan dive into the lake of fire and fan myself with the skin of man. I'll pluck and gnaw and chew and enjoy the destruction and wrath.

Now doesn't that sound like fun?

It sure does to me.

**oOo**

**Last Author's Note: The text Sam reads is Revelations 22:16**


	3. WhatRubyDoesn'tKnowPtI:KeepingSecrets

**A/N: This is the third installment of my 'Abaddon Series.' It's a little different than the first two, being written in Sam's point of view and all. I hope you all enjoy it. **

**I should also say that I really appreciate all of the feedback I've received for this fic. Things have been a little shaky here in real life, so I haven't been able to respond to the Chapter 2 feedback. I'm hoping to rectify that ASAP. Sorry!**

**:) **

**Emrys**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own anything related to the television program ****Supernatural****. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I'm not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.**

**What Ruby Doesn't Know—Part I: Keeping Secrets**

Carefully sipping coffee that is perfectly strong but still too hot, Sam walks through the shabby neighborhood. He left Dean at the apartment only minutes ago—ten, fifteen at most. Only minutes, but Sam still walks briskly.

It's been months—going on a year, actually—since Sam tore Dean out of Hell, and Dean is not yet recovered. He still hallucinates, still jumps at the oddest noises and is still painfully truthful. And Sam, he doesn't like to leave his brother for too long. He manages to keep his nervous energy down when he's in class, but even the distraction of school can't completely keep him from worrying.

Actually, it's the distraction of school—a midterm—that has brought him out here this time of night. It's late, and he's exhausted, because Dean had a bad day.

Sam's always exhausted after Dean has a bad day. He's also always depressed, but he can't afford to feel that way right now. There's just too much work to do. Instead he chooses to ignore the sick reaction in his chest and the clogged up feeling in his head. It's hard, this ignoring business, but mostly he succeeds.

Mostly.

Sam knows he needs to sleep, but before he can do that he needs to catch up on a few case studies that will surely be on his exam in the morning. Coffee was in order, so he left, just for a handful of minutes, to get a cup full of good, strong joe to help him through the night.

He didn't leave Dean alone—Bobby is more than capable of handling the older Winchester for a little while. And, really, it's been just a few minutes. Not even a quarter of an hour.

His sharp awareness of the time he's away from Dean is an obsession Sam can't break. Neither can he erase the guilt that rumbles around in his head as robustly as the depression does. He can't erase it, because all of this, all of Dean's pain and instability has been for Sam.

Dean went to Hell to save Sam. And now, now that Dean's back and safe, now that Sam is strong and full of white power, well, now Sam can't save Dean. Can't save Dean from hallucinations and snooping demons and nightmares. Can't save Dean from fear and anxiety and a fractured mind.

Sam can't save Dean from Dean.

Dean tries to overcome himself. In fact he can be an outright pain in the ass at times, just like he could be before his sight-seeing tour through the underworld. Sometimes Dean seems strong, and angry, and just plain pissed off. At those times, those very rare times, Sam can almost pretend everything will all be okay. Finally.

But Dean's mood is a knife's edge, a spinning dime. It doesn't take much for Sam's hope to evaporate when Dean's good days turn bad. And those good days, yeah, they do turn bad. And when Dean has a bad day, a day like today, that's when Sam knows better. That's when Sam knows that everything won't all be okay.

It just won't.

Sam sighs, takes a quick sip of coffee. Yeah, he's exhausted, but he picks up his pace anyway. He needs to get home.

It's Sam's guilt, his unwavering attention to the doubts inside his head that keeps him from seeing the danger when it comes.

"Little Sammy Winchester, my how absolutely funny it is to meet you here of all places. Right in the middle of the street! And oh, look, it's the witching hour, isn't it? Hysterical. What a laugh!"

Three men, tall, dark, and dressed in elegant three-piece suits, step out of the shadows into Sam's path. Sam notices that they could all be brothers, that all three look remarkably alike. The broad smirk of the one who talked, another's slovenly look, and the third's pair of steamy eyeglasses are the only differences between the threesome. Sam notes these differences and is curious by the peculiarity of the men. He isn't afraid of them, because he's a Winchester and a powerful one at that. He can take care of himself.

And when three pairs of eyes cloud and darken and show their demon selves, well, Sam, he still isn't afraid.

He's positively furious.

"Christo!" He yells the word just to annoy the demons. It gives him time to step back and assess the situation.

All three flinch simultaneously.

"That wasn't funny," the one who cajoled Sam says now.

"Not at all," another declares. This is the sloppy looking one. The creature rubs his head as if it aches and doesn't attempt to smooth down his messy hair once he stops.

Sam's anger builds, and he's raring to go. He's ready, and the world starts to turn white at its edges. It's been a bad day and, yeah, oh boy, he's ready to kick some demon ass.

"I told you he's out of play. When are you stupid fucks going to get the point?" Sam growls. He feels the whiteness burn and savors the anticipation of death and destruction.

"Now, now, now, Mr., um, Winchester. Not so, um, hasty. We, uh, we aren't here to, um, ah threaten your brother." The words are hurried and nervous.

Sam can't see straight, but he knows it's the demon with the glasses who just spoke. He pauses, because although hesitation could be a mistake here, there's something different, maybe important, in the demon's tone.

"Ahem, ah, I, ah, believe you know, that you realize, that your brother, despite all your, uh, actions to prove otherwise, is, uh, is very much, actually, _in_ play."

The light, the whiteness pulls back. Sam forces it down, so he can listen. But if one of these assholes says the wrong thing, well, the geyser of his power isn't so far away that he won't be able to use it in time.

"Let us introduce ourselves. Um, I'm Uphir. My friend here with the annoying laugh is Kobal."

Kobal bows and giggles, then Uphir continues with the introductions.

"My other, ah, friend is Cresil."

"Yeah, whatever. Can we get this over with?" Cresil says and belches loudly.

Uphir wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"What do you want?" Sam demands.

The three demons look at each other as if unsure how to start. It's peculiar behavior for demons, and suddenly Sam's a little interested.

"A business proposition," Uphir says.

"Forget it," Sam replies, with a disgusted wave of his hand. "I've had enough dealings with your kind to last a lifetime. Take it up with some other poor fuck."

Sam shoves past the threesome and isn't entirely surprised when they all scramble to keep from touching him. He knows his power is painful to them. It's why he hasn't been afraid of a demon, any demon, in almost a year.

He crosses the street, and as an afterthought considers splatting these three demons all over the sidewalk. It's only an instant of thought though, because sometimes—almost all the time—when he turns his power on something, the human housing it is harmed, sometimes killed. Sam can't stomach that tonight. Not after the day Dean had.

"If I hear of you hurting anyone, I'll turn you all to dust," he calls from across the street. It's an insurance policy. Insurance against further guilt and despair.

He turns his back and hears an unhappy scuffle behind him.

"Winchester! Wait!"

Sam doesn't know which of the three calls out to him, and he doesn't really care. His thoughts turn to Dean, and again he quickens his pace toward home.

"Winchester! Listen to us!" There's a hint of desperation in the voice. Sam still doesn't care.

"Your brother is in a great deal of trouble!"

Sam doesn't remember stalking his way back across the street. And yet, suddenly he's in the midst of the three demons again, and he's got his hands locked around the throat of the smirking one.

"You leave my brother alone," he commands. The demon in his hold continues to smirk, but it's clear that Sam's touch is uncomfortable to it.

"We have, um, well, no intention of harming Dean," Uphir says. "It's just that, well, um, we're not, well, exactly pleased with the, uh, the uh, way things are going with your, um, well, your brother."

"Too much work," the unkempt demon says.

"Not funny at all," the one in Sam's hold chokes out.

"Shut the fuck up and let me do this!" Uphir yells. All trace of nervousness suddenly dissipates from him.

For an instant, the demons look ready to fight each other, even the one Sam's got his fingers around.

Sam pushes the demon in his grasp away and wipes his hand on his pants. Calm follows his move.

"Get it over with," the messy one, Cresil, hisses.

"Give me some fucking silence, and maybe I will," Uphir growls back.

Sam interrupts their arguing.

"What are you talking about? What's the matter with Dean?"

Kobal, the smirking creature, laughs hysterically. He rubs his neck which is clearly damaged from Sam's hold.

"You're not going to like it. Not at all," the giggling demon says.

Uphir takes a deep breath and speaks.

"You didn't listen very well to Nybbas. A shame really, since you took all that time to barbeque him." Cunning and nastiness now replace the seemingly characteristic nervousness of the creature and send a chill down Sam's spine.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, wary. Suspicious.

"Won't believe us, won't believe us, won't believe us," Cresil mutters in an understated voice that sounds like static. The other two demons glare daggered warnings at him.

"Read that story again, Sammy," Uphir says, once he's sure Cresil is quiet. He pats Sam's chest, and licks at his burnt fingers afterwards. "You know it. It's the one at the end of that cursed book. Read it and think of stupid, fat Nybbas. Maybe you'll catch on."

"I read it already. There's nothing there except for the Morning Star, the name of Luci—"

All three demons cringe and howl.

"Don't say it."

"Not that name."

"Oh please, be quiet. Be very quiet."

Sammy looks on, confused and still leery.

"I know it's a story that's been perverted by a demon," he continues, hesitantly. He doesn't know what will set the threesome off again, and it isn't so very late that their commotion won't draw unwanted attention. "But I don't have a clue what it has to do with Dean."

"What, did you think we'd make it easy for you?" Uphir sneers.

"Yeah, we're demons, not Santa Claus," Kobal says and giggles again.

"Oh, all right. Chapter four. Verse one. When you figure it out, we'll find you. See if you still want to chat," Cresil drawls, sounding put out and lazy at the same time.

As one, the three demons turn and take a step away from Sam. Sam stands in the middle of the sidewalk, confused and wondering. Why did they even bother with him if they weren't going to give him straight answers?

He shakes his head and is about to walk home when Uphir halts. The demon, slowly, inexorably turns around. His voice buzzes when he speaks.

"Check his blood. It's quite important that you do so," the demon says. The buzzing is disorienting and uncomfortable. It gives Sam a headache. "And remember, we'll find you. Don't seek us out. You've got many eyes watching you, Winchester. Can't make it look like we're in cahoots. Oh, and to that end—"

Kobal, whose back is turned away, suddenly cackles, turns and swings an arm out. Sam almost kisses demon power before his white heat surfaces and retaliates. The demons growl, make a fuss, and do all the things demons normally do before making an unhappy exit.

They howl once more before scampering away from Sam's bright power.

Sam is left confused and breathing hard.

And his coffee is stone cold.

oOo

Dean's not sleeping when Sam gets home a few minutes later.

"Where have you been?!" Bobby coarsely whispers the frantic question.

"I got caught up with someone. When did he wake up?" Sam carefully eyes Dean as he talks.

Dean does not look well. In the month since Ruby, Nybbas, and that other, nameless demon came sniffing around, Dean hasn't left the apartment. Before the demonic intrusions, Dean had recovered enough to tolerate leaving the apartment for short periods of time, sitting at the beach, gaining some color and health back. Now, hunched in a rocker and staring out the window, he looks almost as unhealthy as he did immediately after returning from Hell. He's too thin, too pale, and his hair is getting too long again.

It's all just too much.

Dean sits and rocks, rocks, rocks. The squeakiness of the chair is going to drive Sam insane if he has to listen to that all night.

"Are you listening to me, Sam?"

"What?" Sam is pulled from his bleak thoughts by Bobby, who apparently was talking to him.

Bobby's expression turns cloudy and frustrated.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sam?"

"Fine, I'm fine. What were you saying?" Sam asks, making sure his attention doesn't wane again.

"I said he came out of his room about twenty minutes ago. He was muttering something about demons again. Wouldn't let me touch him. Won't go to bed."

Sam curses quietly. He's tried everything to convince Dean that the apartment is protected, that there is no way demons can gain access to their home.

Dean refuses to believe him and insists that there's one—Ruby, actually—who continues to lurk around the place.

Bobby and Sam have found no sign of Ruby, but Dean can't get over his delusion. And this delusion scares Sam, because Dean usually is much more willing to trust Sam's judgment and to rationalize his hallucinations as side effects from his ordeal.

But his belief that Ruby still haunts and prowls the dark places in the apartment is unshakable. Sam worries that Dean is deteriorating into something splintered and wrong and aberrant. This delusion of Ruby, coupled with Dean lately having more bad days than good ones makes Sam worry he is completely losing his brother just when he should be getting him back.

Dean pulls his legs up onto the chair and clutches his knees together with his arms. He looks small and child-like in a hoodie that Sam recognizes by its poor fit as one of his own. Dean's eyes are glassy as he stares out the window and continues to rock.

Suddenly, Sam could care less about the midterm tomorrow. None of it, nothing at all, matters if he ends up losing Dean.

"I'll look after him," Sam roughly says to Bobby. "You should go to bed." There's a heavy ball of grief clogging his throat, and he can barely get the words out.

"Sam, you have your test tomorrow. I can stay up and watch him. You need to study," Bobby says. Bobby's eyes are tired and wet. The man looks as close to tears as Sam feels.

Sam forces a smile for this man who has looked after them and worried over them as much or more than their real father ever did.

"It's not important," Sam says. "I'll sit with him."

"You sure?" Bobby asks, unwilling to surrender his vigil.

"Yeah, go on. You look tired."

Bobby is gentleman enough not to argue any further. He claps Sam on the back and retreats to the relative peace of his own room.

Sam watches Dean for a while longer before carefully making his way to his brother's side. Dean doesn't stop rocking and doesn't acknowledge Sam until Sam places a gentle hand against the rocker to make it stop.

"Dean?"

Dean jumps as if freezing water was thrown on him. His breathing is hard and fast. His eyes are panicked and twitching. Then he recognizes Sam and calms down. Just a little.

"Sammy, you nearly gave me a heart attack." There's a speck of recrimination in Dean's voice that makes the corner of Sam's mouth perk up into an almost-smile.

"Sorry," Sam says. "Dean, why are you up? It's late. You should be in bed."

Dean scowls, and it's almost as if Sam's cocky, son-of-a-bitch brother is back.

"What am I, ten? Leave me alone. I'm thinking," Dean says. Then his eyes narrow in concentration. "And aren't you supposed to be studying for some big test or something? Why aren't you hitting the books?"

Sam's not happy that Dean's thinking, because whatever he's mulling over obviously isn't good. But he is happy that Dean remembered the test. He's happy because Dean remembering such things is an indication that his big brother's concentration is returning. It's an indication that maybe tomorrow won't be such a terribly bad day. Maybe, just maybe, it will be a good day.

"I'm done studying for the night," Sam says.

Dean cocks an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You know it all?"

"Yeah, Dean, I know it all," Sam says, lying easily.

Dean's eyes narrow again in concentration, but he's not so recovered that he detects the untruth.

"Alright, then go to bed. Leave me alone. I'm thinking," Dean mumbles. He turns away from Sam, tightens his grasp on his knees, and starts rocking again.

Sam again, insistently, stops the chair from moving.

"Sam! What the HELL is your—"

And just like that, what little semblance there was to Sam's self-confident brother is gone. Vanished. Lickety-split. One little word is all it takes to erase Dean and leave nothing but a shell in the wake of its utterance.

"Dean, it's okay. Calm down, okay? Just calm down and stay with me."

It is rare, incredibly rare, for Dean to make such a mistake, to say such a dreaded word. That he has done so now means bad things ahead for both brothers.

Sam crouches down in front of Dean. He clutches his brother's ice cold hands and tries very hard to make contact with Dean's horrified eyes.

"Dean, hold my hands. You need to stay with me and not panic, okay? Stay with me." Sam continues the stream of soothing, encouraging words until Dean somehow finds the strength within himself to keep from dissociating, to keep from disintegrating into a full blown panic attack.

Dean grabs Sam's hands as if they are the only thing keeping him from flying apart. That's when Sam finally manages to make eye contact with his brother.

"Okay, Dean. It's all right. You just need to slow down your breathing. You're going to hyperventilate if you keep breathing like that."

Eye contact is suddenly, regretfully lost as Dean wildly examines the room.

"Are you—are you—you sure? No dem—demons?" Dean's questions are almost incomprehensible, because he's gulping in air too fast.

Involuntarily thinking of the three demons he met on his way home makes Sam wince inwardly. But he doesn't let the memory or his reaction to it show on his face.

"None, Dean. Not one. Now I need you to slow your breathing down, okay? Come on, breathe with me."

Putting Dean's hand on his chest, Sam starts taking in slow, deep breaths. The contact helps Dean, and soon he's able to mimic his brother's breathing. He meets Sam's eyes again, but continues struggling to ease his greedy gasps for air. By the way Dean's eyes slide away from his every so often, Sam knows Dean is working too hard to stay focused and associated.

But Sam is insistent and determined, so ten minutes later Dean manages to raise his head all the way and nod at his stubborn brother. Then he lifts his knees, withdraws his hands, and buries his face in his lap. Sam places a strong hand on the Dean's bony back, and strokes circles of gentle relief there.

When Dean lifts his head again, he's calm and his eyes are drooping.

"I'm tired," Dean says, quietly.

Sam expects the sudden drowsiness. These attacks always leave his brother drained and lethargic.

"It's okay, Dean. I'll sit with you until you're asleep," Sam assures.

Gently Sam helps Dean stand and carries most of his weight as they make their way to their shared bedroom. Dean mutters something, but Sam can't hear what it is. Sam carefully drops his brother onto his bed, covers him with sheet and blanket, and then turns on the nightstand light.

Sam makes sure Dean is alright before taking his Bible off the top of a stack of books at the base of his own bed. He toes his shoes off and then sits on the bed, leans against the headboard.

He finds the correct chapter and verse but is interrupted before he can read the words.

"I thought you said you were done studying," Dean mumbles.

A little startled that his brother is still awake, Sam looks up quickly and a muscle in his neck twitches alarmingly. He smoothes the cramp with a conscientious hand and smiles at his brother.

"I am. Just catching up on a little reading. Go to sleep. You're exhausted."

"Gone, right? Demon's are gone? You're here?" Dean whispers, and his breathing hitches then speeds up.

Sam frowns and climbs half-way out of bed. He doesn't want to disturb his fatigued brother, but he also doesn't want another attack to surface. On very bad days, Dean can have several consecutive bouts with panic. Sam doesn't want to discover that today is one of Dean's very bad days.

This being a plain old bad day has been difficult enough to handle.

"Take it easy, Dean. The demons are gone, and I'll be here when you wake up. Stop fighting it now. Go to sleep."

Dean's eyes close, and he offers no further comment. After a long while, too long for Sam's liking, his breathing slows and eases into something approaching normal.

Still worried, Sam watches Dean for a few minutes more before settling back against the headboard of his bed. Then he waits a while longer before turning his attention to the book in his lap.

And then he reads Revelations 4:1.

oOo

"'After these things I looked, and behold, a door _standing_ open in heaven, and the first voice which I had heard, like _the sound _of a trumpet speaking with me, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after these things."'

"Well what the tarnation is that supposed to mean?" Bobby asks after Sam reads him the passage.

Bobby is not happy. In fact he's been decidedly _unhappy_ since Sam sat at the kitchen table with him this morning and told him about the three demons from the previous night.

"When Nybbas saw Dean, he started screaming 'ostium' and 'lanua'," Sam says with a tired shrug.

Bobby grimaces.

"Latin for 'door'," he replies, miserably.

Sam has had all night to think about this situation, and he's so depressed that he can barely talk to Bobby about it now. But ignoring trouble that may or may not be coming down the pike won't help Dean.

"Bobby, what if Dean is related to this door to heaven somehow, and that's why all these demons are skulking around?"

"Why? How, Sam? It doesn't really make all that much sense," Bobby says.

Sam leans forward and tiredly rubs his forehead with his right hand.

"What I don't understand," Bobby says, "is why, after all the poking around and tormenting those demons have done to your brother, why is it exactly that you would even consider listening to another bunch of them?"

"If I thought there was any other way to get answers, do you think I would even consider talking to these guys? Listen, something's going on. Something big, and it involves Dean somehow."

"They _lie_, Sam. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that. But it doesn't mean they don't tell the truth sometimes, and even you can't deny there's been a lot of demonic activity around Dean since he, well, since he came back."

Sam's right. Bobby _can't_ deny it, but nevertheless, he doesn't look convinced.

"Nybbas also said that John of Patmos, the guy who wrote Revelations was lied to. And, well, a son of the morning star? Damn it, Bobby, for all we know John could have gotten the entire story from a demon."

Bobby laughs roughly.

"From John's mouth to God's ear," he says wryly, and then wipes his mouth nervously. "I don't like any of this. Revelations? That's end of the world stuff, and I don't like to think of you boys getting mixed up in it."

Sam thinks of the moment when Dean died, of when he was dead and slowly dripping in Sam's arms. That moment was the end of the world for them both. Both Dean _and_ Sam.

There's no question about them _getting_ mixed up in all this 'end of the world stuff.' No question, because Sam, he's _already_ mixed up in it, and so is Dean.

He says nothing of his thoughts to Bobby. Instead he shrugs.

Just shrugs.

Bobby gets the point, even though it's a tough one to swallow.

"I still don't like the idea of you messing with demons," the older man says gruffly.

"Listen, I can handle them. The first sign of twitchiness, and I'll zap them. But let's play along for a while. I'll get Dean's blood checked out. We'll see if there's anything to their story."

"Yeah, and who are you going to send the blood to, Sam? It's not as if any old general practitioner is going to have a clue what to look for," Bobby says.

"Remember when I told you about Oregon? Rivergrove and the whole Croatoan ordeal?"

Bobby sighs heavily and takes a deep draw from the beer he started drinking when Sam began telling this whacked out story. It's only nine in the morning, but Bobby thinks he deserves this one. Just this once. He takes another slug, then nods his head.

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well, Doc Lee moved to Northern California after all that mess. She'll know what to look for, and she's not very far away. I was planning on sending the sample to her."

Bobby studies Sam with hard eyes. He tugs his cap off his head and quickly replaces it.

"You've got this all figured out, haven't you?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam admits. "I sorta do."

"You need to tell him, Sam. You can't hide something like this from him. Not the way he is right now."

"I'll tell him. I just don't want to say anything until we know for sure there's something going on. Let's get the blood results, and then if anything's there, I'll tell him."

"That's not fair to him, Sam. Not fair, one bit."

"You didn't see him last night, Bobby. And Dean going to Hell wasn't fair either. I just want to protect him for a little while longer."

Bobby still looks unhappy, but Sam knows he's not going to argue any further. At least not right now, which is no guarantee the subject won't come up again later.

"When do you want to draw the blood?" Bobby asks Sam, resignedly.

Sam's shoulders slump in obvious relief. He reaches out, grabs Bobby's beer, and takes a swig.

"Tonight. I'll give him a pill before he goes to bed. He'll take it for sure, especially after last night. Once he's out, we'll get the blood from him. I'll mail it up to Doc tomorrow morning."

"Naw, don't do that," Bobby says. He steals his beer back from Sam and rubs his beard unhappily. "I'll drive it up there. It'll be quicker, and I'll wait for the results. You better call Lee and let her know."

Sam's eyes sting at their corners.

"Thanks, Bobby. Thanks a lot."

"Yeah, well, you best be going now. You've got that test to take."

Sam's about to protest the importance of his exam when Bobby's affectionate expression turns steely.

"The world didn't stop turning because you boys had a bad night. Take your test. There ain't nothing you can do until tonight anyway."

"I told Dean I'd be here when he wakes up."

"He'll understand, Sam. 'Sides, the way he's sawing wood in there, he'll probably still be sleeping by the time you get home. Now go on. Break a leg."

"You're only supposed to say that to wish good luck to actors right before a performance," Sam points out.

"Yeah, well, the way this day's shaping up, we all better be hobbling around before too long. Now stop your yammering, and go to school, you ingrate."

oOo

That evening Sam's predictions about Dean's behavior come to pass when Dean willingly takes the offered sleeping pill. While they wait for the older Winchester to fall asleep, Bobby and Sam talk quietly in the living room.

"How'd that test go?" Bobby asks the question as if the world is normal, and he isn't about to steal blood from someone he considers a friend.

"I did fine," Sam says, truthfully.

"Good. That's good," Bobby says.

Sam laughs. It's a cynical huff of sound. He checks his watch and nods.

"C'mon, he should be asleep," he says. He grabs his bag of supplies, and the two men quietly enter the bedroom.

Dean sleep is comparatively peaceful. His limbs jerk on occasion, and his eyes roll around behind his closed eyelids, but he's not vocalizing horror or being subjected to whole body convulsions as is sometimes the case. The sleeping pill knocked him out enough that he doesn't even open his eyes when Sam and Bobby arrange furniture and blood-drawing supplies around him. Sam's glad, not only because Dean badly needs a good night's sleep, but also because Sam _needs_ him to stay asleep.

Dean doesn't even flinch when the needle slides into a vein; Sam's surprised, but he's too thankful to do more than just check to be certain Dean's okay. Dean unconsciously convinces Sam of his well-being by taking a deep breath and sighing. Satisfied, Sam whispers prayers as he draws the blood, thick and red, and looking the same as it always did. And yet, Sam suspects it isn't the same. Not the same, or else why is he stealing blood from his drugged-up brother in the middle of the night?

He pushes aside his fears but is still grim as he finishes the task. He shakes the tube and skillfully withdraws the needle, then hands the blood sample to Bobby.

To Bobby, who looks just as bleak and pained as Sam feels.

"This ain't right," Bobby whispers. Harsh. Angry. Devastated.

"We've already been through this. I'm not telling him anything until we know for sure there's something wrong. He's been through enough." Sam says, keeping pressure on Dean's arm to stem the flow of blood there.

"He has a right to know."

"Know what?" Sam says, angry now. They already discussed this, and he's annoyed that Bobby's bringing it up again now, when they're in the middle of things. "_We_ don't even know what's going on! What are we going to tell him? That demons are hanging around? Oh, I'm sure he'll be so pleased to hear—"

Sam's sarcastic whisper is interrupted by Dean who begins muttering in his sleep.

"Please, no. Nonononononono."

It's a quiet noise, a simple word repeated with absolutely no feeling behind it. And yet, the unemotional quality of the plea is somehow more appalling than it would be if Dean was screaming out in supplication. Sam's blood goes cold at the horror of the sound. He's frozen for too long before he reaches out and carefully, softly strokes Dean's head in the way he learned is the only one which might calm his brother down.

"Hey, Dean. Hey. Quiet now. You're safe," Sam says, gently pushing Dean's too long hair away from his sweat-soaked brow. "You're safe."

His ministrations, thankfully, work, and Dean escapes whatever dark memories pursue him. Sam relaxes a little and checks the site of the blood draw. He blows out a shaky breath when he sees the bleeding stopped.

He makes sure Dean is still relatively calm then stands and meets Bobby's sad, sick gaze.

"I won't tell him. Not yet. Not until we know more," Sam says. Dark. Broken. Determined.

Bobby studies him with flinty eyes, but eventually acquiesces to Sam's judgment with a swift nod of his head. He leaves the room to pack the blood in ice and begin his nighttime journey north.

Sam pulls a chair over to the side of Dean's bed and doesn't sleep the entire night.

oOo

Sam stalks the neighborhood which is painted less dingy than usual by pale moonlight. He moves like a dangerous creature, edgy and canny and something to stay away from. And whether consciously or unconsciously, that's just what the others on the streets do. They steer clear from the danger and give him wide berth.

As he hunts, Sam obsesses over what he's found out in the last three days.

The initial call from Doctor Lee was good. Not perfect, but good. Hopeful. She had known what to look for and hadn't found it when she looked. No sign of sulfur. That had been good news, and Sam, on the other end of a long phone line, had breathed deeply when she told him her findings.

"But the patient's lymphocyte levels are on the elevated side of normal," Doc had said next. "It could be the beginning of a straightforward infection, but I'd like to culture the blood just to make sure it's nothing more. It'll only take a few days."

Knowing full well of Dean's physically weakened condition, Sam wouldn't have been surprised if his brother harbored a simple bacteria or virus. But that knowledge didn't keep his heart from skipping a beat when the doctor made her suggestion.

"If any other person in the world had asked me to do this, I wouldn't even consider performing a culture. The sample is clean, and the lymphocyte levels aren't really all that high. Like I said, they're within normal range," Doc had said. She'd spoken hushed and hurried, and Sam had realized she was nervous. "But it's you doing the asking, Sam. Obviously you believe something could be wrong, and after what happened in Rivergrove I just think—"

Sam had had to shove aside the growing lump of unease crawling in his throat before he'd been able to say, "No, you're right. It's right to be thorough."

There had been quiet on the other end of the line. Sam had heard the doctor's fast breathing, but hadn't known what to say next to end the growing tension.

He'd just about decided to give up and simply say good-bye, when Doctor Lee whispered, "Sam, is this your brother's blood?"

And that question, that had been the one Sam hadn't been willing to answer.

"Just call me when you get the results of the blood culture," Sam had said in response, forcing calm into his tone.

Then he'd hung up and waited.

Bobby had returned that evening, still looking grim and unhappy with Sam's decisions. He'd opened his mouth to complain, taken one look at Sam's face, and then given up. Sam hasn't heard one word of dissent from him since.

Then, just an hour or so ago, the Doc called again.

This time the news wasn't good. Not good at all.

Sam doesn't clearly remember the second conversation he had with Doctor Lee. He's only able to recall bits of it like, 'strange bacterium,' and, 'definitely sulfur,' and, 'slow to culture but potentially virulent.' He remembers her saying 'it's not the same as Rivergrove,' and, 'I can't begin to speculate,' and, 'I'm so sorry, Sam.'

What he distinctly _doesn't _remember her saying is, 'everything's going to be fine.'

But then again, Sam thinks to himself, he never really ever believed that in the first place.

He stalks, prowls, hunts for them now, those three demons who brought this agony to his attention. He's not quite sure what he'll do when he finds them. His initial inclination is to torture them for answers and then send them back where they came from. Yet the guilt that such actions would bring can't be overstated.

He wants to be tormenter and judgment, but it's just not in his nature. Not really. Even his previous actions with Nybbas had had a backlash of deep remorse directed toward the human taken over by the demon. And all that shame emerged after action against an uncooperative demon.

These three, if he ever finds them, claim to be obliging, if only on their terms.

So he knows, despite all thought to the contrary, that he'll try to play it cool despite the white-hot heat building at his edges. Hopefully he'll succeed.

After the decision is made, he hears high-pitched, sinister laughter that draws his attention.

"Sammy! Sammy-boy! So, what did you find out?! Anything interesting? Anything…fun?!"

He's in a playground, empty except for three figures that are lined up side by side and swinging out of synch with each other on swings. As before, the three demons are impeccably dressed and look completely out of place.

"Don't call me that," Sam growls, and the smirking demon, Korbal, responds with a poorly smothered string of manic giggles.

"Silly Sammy, stupid Sammy, sulky Sammy," murmurs Cresil. "Told you not to look for us."

Sam's heated attention shifts to the disheveled demon.

Cresil looks bored. He stops swinging to languish against the chain of the swing. He's unkempt and kicks at sand with shoes that are no longer perfectly polished. Sam can't help noticing that the demon's host is plumper than when they last met.

"Then why show yourselves to me?" Sam asks, irate.

Cresil shrugs.

"Now's as good a time as any," the drooping demon says nonchalantly.

"Yes, well, um, you must see Sam that Korbal uh, um, he has a point," Uphir says, swinging high. "Did you find, ah, out anything, um, interesting?"

Sam tries very hard to force back his gut-reaction fury to Uphir's stammered inquiry. He's still struggling with himself when he sees that, oddly, the bespectacled demon has a scroll of aged-looking parchment in his hand. The paper is held irreverently, crushed against the chain of the swing. Even more strangely, Uphir wears a heavy glove on the hand gripping the parchment.

The peculiarity of the sight, as well as silent speculation of what the creature just might be clutching in its hand, does what Sam hasn't succeeded in doing since Doctor Lee's phone call. The painfully burning fire in him abruptly extinguishes, and he's calm as silent water.

Placid.

Cool.

In control.

Uphir and Kobal stop swinging so fast and abrupt it's as if a switch was cut off.

Sam doesn't blink at the physics-defying motion. He's not affected by the weirdness, because he's all resolve and ice-cold control now. All three demons watch him with wide eyes and open expressions. The emotions passing over their identical faces are obvious.

Disgust.

Reverence.

Fear.

Sam takes one step forward, then another. He thinks of Dean.

"I want to talk," he says and calmly takes one more step.


End file.
